East Meets West
by TheRockNRollBeauty
Summary: On April 25, 1945 on a river in Germany-after decades separated by the wall of ideology-Alfred finally gets the chance to see him. Historical/WWII era RusAme.


**Written for someone's birthday on tumblr~**

**Requester wanted something to do with RusAme and the meeting on the Elbe River-which, in WWII, was the place where American and Soviet forces met after moving in from the East and the West in the European theater. **

**Hope you like! And I tried to make this historically accurate, but if there are any mistakes, please let me know!**

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><p>The Elbe cuts Germany down the middle, dividing it along the parallel of East and West. Alfred knows this now, knows Europe in ways he never has had before and, frankly, never wants to again.<p>

The Elbe's water currently laps at the side of the boat, the boat where America sits, huddled against the other men present as they push their way across the river to the other side, the sliver of brown and green bank and the tuft of trees just beyond.

America wonders exactly why he had offered himself to join with the smaller patrol and the particular reconnaissance mission. None had any idea what was waiting on the other bank—and although it was likely, at this point in the fighting to be friend, Alfred still could not shake the war nerves that put him on edge.

_And perhaps America also still had a shred of hope that he would be able to see _him_, that the pull in his chest wasn't entirely anxiety or excitement—_

_Him_, who Alfred had been hearing about all this time. The Soviet Union had cut a swathe through Eastern Europe long before they had opened the second front and sometimes Alfred wonders what _he_ thinks of that, and whether _he_ blames Alfred for arriving too late, for perhaps _purposefully_ delaying his arrival—

He pushes it out of his mind because it's stupid to think about _him. _Alfred shuts his eyes momentarily and instead tries to focus on something else—perhaps the dull throbbing pain in his calf, evidence of a brush with death only mere days ago when a German bullet had lodged itself into his leg—-

America shivers, clutching his uniform to his shoulders, rifle hugged tightly to his chest as he bites his lip.

_Maybe focusing on the leg is not the best idea, eh Alfred_? He cracks his eyes open and instead glances about at the others sharing the small, cramped space.

There were four other men in the boat with him, all habitual members of the small reconnaissance patrol led by a stout and stoic First Lieutenant who calls to them as the opposite bank finally comes close into view.

When the appropriate signal is made America levers himself out of the boat and slips as quietly and carefully as he can into the knee deep water, still hissing in pain as he sloshes towards shore, his boots dragging through the murky bank mud.

They tug the small boat until it nudges against the shore and two of the men pull it up onto the bank as America and the Lieutenant scan the area, wary for the presence of foe who might have seen their journey across the river and had decided to lay in wait.

There's a shuffle of arms amidst the patrol as rifles are brought to the ready, voices suddenly drifting to the air towards the small patrol.

But Alfred recognizes the language, or snatches of it as derivative from a tongue he once used to hear far more frequently, and in a far different setting than the traumatic theater of war.

The Lieutenant calls out warily and is returned by the same harshness of accent as the heads of soldiers emerge from beyond the crest of the bank.

America recognizes them and their uniforms by the photographs and newsreels that he had seen back when he was in his own country—the attire makes his heart leap in hope in his throat, despite knowing that it's a pipe dream to think that _he's_ here out of all the soldiers sweeping over the Eastern Front—

The unrecognizable faces of the first soldiers makes his heart drop, and he is about to cast his eyes to the ground and perhaps sit to tend to his aching wound but then he catches a glimpse of something familiar in the dull light. The familiar pull grows stronger and stronger until he takes an involuntary stumble, mouth falling slack at who his eyes fall upon.

It is a bulky, large man who stands nearly a head above the rest, shocks of pale hair hanging from beneath a military visor, barely visible against the glow of whitened skin. The telltale shift of the uniform betrays the bulk and muscled body beneath it and makes America's breath hitch.

"Rus—" Alfred breaths without thinking, and catches himself, "I—I mean,"

One of the soldiers next to him looks at him quizzically, and Alfred shuts his mouth tight, eyes dipping down briefly before coming back up to fix at the older man amidst the allied ranks.

_Ivan_.

He hangs back, standing still at the ready as the American lieutenant and the Soviet lieutenant-colonel break rank to stride forward and clap hands in gestures that border on relief and breed camaraderie between two allied but diametrically opposite nations.

Ivan stays in place as well but the look in his eyes, even at the distance, betrays his recognition of Alfred. The familiar pull of nationhood tugs harder at Alfred's chest, a deeper connection than even those between the relieved allied soldiers drawing out between them.

The space between the two is forced and unnatural but necessary in the presence of their soldiers and commanding officers, all of whom, Alfred assumes, has no idea _who_ they are.

Now, America is not America but is Alfred F. Jones and Russia is not the Soviet Union but _Ivan Braginski_, and Alfred thinks he likes this moment when they're together around their men because he gets to call him that, call him _Ivan_—

He looks better than he had back when Alfred had last seen him in person, back when Francis and Arthur were hammering out Versailles and twiddling their thumbs and wondering _what was to be done about this rogue state_ and Alfred had offered up his own country's plentiful bounty—_people who are well fed don't revolt, Ivan_—and the now-Soviet had glared at him with a look that burned icy cold into Alfred's retinas.

That look had softened in those decades into the look Ivan gives Alfred now, the anger dimmed to a veiled wariness.

It's been years since he's seen Ivan up so close, and not lingering in the backgrounds of photographs and the newsreels Alfred would see whenever he took in a movie. The way the Russian holds himself, battered but stoic, speaks of the trials of the years that Alfred had missed. Some part of him still sears from Stalingrad, some parts of his body waste in the dearth of young men, the vacuum suddenly sucking at his insides. But still Ivan stands, he is still tall and still _strong_.

_Alfred doesn't want to think too long about Ivan being so strong._

He sees his own soldiers begin to mill about and takes the opportunity to tread cautiously towards the tall nation, wanting nothing more than to throw himself at the Russian's arms but knowing that the opportunity for such intimate gestures had long passed, replaced with the reality of mistrusted ideology.

Alfred stops a few feet away from Ivan, the Russian moving not an inch to meet him but still appraising him with the heathered eyes from beneath the brim of his visor. For once Alfred is speechless and Ivan takes the opportunity to work his pale lips to speak to the younger nation.

"You are looking_k_ well," Ivan's voice is deeper than he'd last heard it, more thickly laced with accent and unpracticed in English, "Strong."

Alfred can't imagine he looks in any way powerful, his uniform old and tattered, limping on a leg still swelled around a bullet and dark with infection. Perhaps the burgeoning war economy back home helps add to the appearance of health, Alfred doesn't know.

But Ivan, to America's eyes, has suffered an intense change—he's bigger, bulked and heavy with rapid industrialization and hardened through stringent policy and planned economic growth.

Alfred doesn't want to think it and thus pushes it from him mind, but for a brief second he realizes that Ivan looks _intimidating_.

And Alfred feels small in his wounded state compared to him—miles away from his mainland he feels _weak_. His leg hurts, _aches_ from the few days ago when he took the bullet in the leg. The skin had already long grown over, but the bulge remained, protesting whenever he placed pressure on it. He bites his lip and closes his eyes, trying to push through the throbbing pain.

Alfred opens his eyes and starts at a hand, a touch on his shoulder and a complete breach of the imposed silence that's supposed to be between them.

"Are you hurt?"

America shrugs, jerking his shoulders as a reaction even though he's taken aback by what sounds like _concern_ in Ivan's voice.

"Not too bad."

"You should sit."

"But—"

Gentle pressure on his shoulder finally makes America comply with a hiss, as he slings the rifle loosely off his shoulder and settles on the damp mud of the bank, sighing in relief as pressure is let off his injured leg.

America half expects Russia to remain standing, perhaps as a show of power over the proud nation now pitifully lying wounded, but instead Ivan shrinks in height as he crouches down, settling on the damp bank next to America.

Alfred gulps and shifts, making sure that there's still a respectable and necessarily wary amount of space between them. It's the closest he's physically been to Russia in decades, though not as close as _they_ had once been, when America was young and starry-eyed and Russia in his height _was_ the sky and the sun and something to reach for—

Russia sighs next to him, and America wonders if perhaps he is tired as well, worn and weary from swinging the sickle and cutting down the chaff of Germany's conquests.

"I have heard about your boss," Russia states, quietly, as to not draw any attention from the soldiers around them. Alfred tenses, fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform.

"Мне очень жаль, I am sorry, Alfred."

"Y-yeah," Alfred returns with a slight quiver in his voice. The sudden shock and memory is still fresh and painful in his mind, the unfairness of it all stinging him and making him sick for his home.

It had been—well—America had thought for a moment there, with the way his and Ivan's bosses had been "getting along" recently, that maybe their relationship was back on the upswing, trending towards repair of a long _but not too long_ broken connection in the aftermath of a taxing war that was now drawing to an end and opening the way to the future. America felt it, England and France felt it, and Alfred wondered if Russia felt it—that the setting of the world's stage has changed, and that new players were taking the spotlight.

_Maybe it's not impossible,_ America thinks, glancing to the pair of folded legs next to him, the only part of Ivan he can see at the moment, _maybe it's not impossible to breach that gap that's grown between them. _

Something hangs heavy in America's pocket, something that he has held onto ever since he had first been deployed to the Western front, something he has held onto along with the ever so slight hope that he would be in this exact situation, with Russia.

America tries to turn the hitch in his breath to a nervous laugh but it doesn't work. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Ivan cock his head at the sound, expectant for America to say or do something.

Prompted by Russia's questioning glance America finally reaches into one of the pocket sin his uniform pants and pulls out a slightly battered but still relatively intact carton of Luckies. He fiddles and turns the cigarettes over for a moment, biting his lip.

"H-Here," America stutters, holding the packet out to Russia, eyes fixed at the space of patchy sky above the older nation's head.

America tries to steel himself, preparing for the moment when Ivan would reject the simple and stupid but _precious_ gift that he had carried with him battle after battle after battle—sometimes at the cost of his own life, though he would never tell the Russian that—

"Спасибо," Russia replies, taking the carton from America, "Thank you."

America is surprised by Russia's gentility but doesn't comment on it, instead scuffing the ground with the thick sole of his boot, digging into the mud.

"Yeah, big guy. Don't mention it."

Alfred hears the sound of Ivan rifling through the pockets of his own uniform and glances briefly to see Ivan pull a packet of matches, drawing one out and striking it as he holds it up to the cigarette now clenched tightly between his teeth.

Ivan swears in the harsh language of his when his match flares and dies out. He flicks the burnt stick onto the wet mud, scowling at it. America tilts his head, warily watching Russia, who stares at the stick for a minute as if it's personally offended him, before shifting the cigarette in his mouth and pulling out another match. America, suddenly struck with an idea, pats the pockets of his uniform, searching for the small object that would solve Ivan's dilemma—

"Here."

He holds out the slightly battered lighter to the older nation, eyes still fixed on the wet mud of the bank. It's small and silver and emblazoned on the side with a tiny American flag and Alfred wonders if Ivan will spurn it or simply take it into his hand and crush it, as some emblem of _capitalist greed_ rather than the sincere gesture that America hoped it was—

But he feels the weight of the lighter leave as it's plucked gently from his hand, a brush of glove temporarily skimming along his calloused thumb.

Ivan fiddles with the lighter for a moment before he pries it open, turning it over and sighing between his teeth. America raises his hand in an offer to help but then Ivan flicks the tip of his finger and the lighter flares, tiny flame burning bright despite the wear and tear and rough treatment it had faced.

Alfred plucks a cigarette from the carton sitting on Ivan's thigh and then in a show of bravery leans over close and dips his head so that the end of the cigarette touches into the little flame, momentarily bringing his and Ivan's face closer together before the American nation quickly draws back, inhaling deeply and watching Ivan drag on his own cigarette, eyes opened a sliver as he draws in the sweet smoke. They exhale in tandem and Alfred allows a small smile to pass his lips as Ivan successfully blows a small ring of smoke into the air. Alfred watches as it floats out over the Elbe, his own plume of smoke chasing after it as if trying to pass through the ring's center.

_One day soon, though neither of them knew it, the border of that very river would divide and define their differences._

But at the moment the cigarette smoke simply lifts into the unbridled air and intertwines before dispersing into the sky of gray and blue.

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><p><strong>AN:**

****-The meeting at the Elbe was on April 25th, thirteen days after the unexpected death of FDR. ****

**-"Luckies" refer to an American brand of cigarettes called Lucky Strikes popular in the 30s and 40s. **

**-"People who are well-fed don't revolt" One of the strategies proposed by some of those (ie the Americans) at Versailles to wean the Russians away from communism was to send the poor peasants food. The idea was that people who are content and not hungry wouldn't revolt against the system. **

**-The Elbe River eventually marked part of the boundary between East and West Germany. **

**-You can read more about Elbe Day here: .org/wiki/Elbe_Day**


End file.
